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“You’re right,” she said, gulping.
“Of course I’m fucking right. That’s all you rich bitches ever do.”
Imani’s mother pushed back her shoulders. “And I’m sorry.”
“That’s—” I stopped mid-sentence and grimaced at her. “What?”
“I’m sorry, João,” Imani’s mother said, brushing her fingers against my forearm. “I’m sorry that it took my daughter liking someone like you for me to care. I’m sorry that I haven’t always treated people like you equally.”
Growling, I yanked myself away from her. “Don’t fucking touch me. It’s because of people like you that my mother is dying.”
“João,” Imani’s mother said, her voice quiet. “What happened to her?”
I glared at her and wanted to give her a taste of what Redwood was really fucking like. I wasn’t ashamed of what my mother did—most of Redwood already fucking knew anyway. It was a sad fucking reality that we lived in.
“My mother sells her body to support us,” I started, my chest tightening at the thought. “She sells her body, and people got her addicted to fucking drugs again. If she fucking dies, then I have to raise my little sister all by myself. No high school kid should have to fucking do that, and no kid should have to grow up without her mother.”
While her eyes quivered, she stood tall. “Who was her last client?”
“Williams.”
She readjusted her coat. “I’ll take care of him.”
“No,” I growled, turning back toward the doors and storming toward my car. “I will.”
